Never mind the width, feel the quality

Well, that's that, then. Quite reasonable in fact - no need to see a solicitor after all.

For the second year running, I have survived the post-every-day-a-thon that is NaBloPoMo. Of course, the sense of achievement was lessened somewhat when I realised that this event was evolved from NaNoWriMo, when otherwise sane people opt to write a 50,000-word novel in the space of a month.

For a moment I thought: 'Hmm, that's not beyond the realms of possibility..."

What's that you say? Did I go off and do something stupid like perform a word count on my November blog posts? Well, that would be a daft and pointless exercise, wouldn't it? What good could possibly come of such an endeavour?

11,197 words. Seriously. And I thought I was a wordy bugger. But it's a mere foothill - a molehill, if you like - plonked next-door to the Himalayas created by some of these novel writers. Mind you, if I'd written 50,000 words over the month in my usual style I'd probably have alienated you all. Plus Katie would be no longer talking to me and I'd have the word "Acer" permanently imprinted on my upper thighs from this overheating laptop.

Which is not a good look.

So what have we all learned from this month of material, these weeks of writing?

We now know that there is an internationally-recognised uniform for bloggers. The name of the long-lost Village People disco/progressive rock crossover album is no longer a mystery. And there's been some of the latest guidelines for modern management, alongside biting political commentary. Most of all, we learned that writing something aimed at an American audience, but posting it on Thanksgiving Day (when, let's face it, they have better things to do), was guaranteed to be as successful as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

It barely seems like only a couple of weeks since we read the moving stories behind the real victims of the economic crisis. We ranted at clueless journalists and pretentious restaurateurs alike. What fun!

Of course, I've been in a sharing mood, too. How else would you know about my one big weakness? Or my hippie past? Or even the reason why I never seem to be able to show up on time? It's enough to make someone adopt an alter ego.

So what can you expect from tomorrow onwards? Well, I know that some blog-writers have decided to extend this exercise and will post something every day for a year. I can't commit to this (I've got a screenplay to write, don't you know) but I plan to keep things nice and regular here, too. For one thing, there's the Small Mercies thing which looks like developing into a series. Well, it amuses me, anyway. Plus I can see that I've picked up some new readers. Hello you. Please stay - your validation of my existence is way cheaper than any therapy.

For now, though, I have the Sunday papers and my sofa. And they're calling my name. No, really, I can hear them. Perhaps I should reconsider the therapy thing.

Four second wonder

My watch has started doing something very odd indeed. Instead of doing what watches are traditionally supposed to do - the classic 'move the second hand once every second' routine that's been with us for so long - it instead has been waiting.

It hasn't stopped - in fact it still keeps perfect time. But the second hand just waits.

And counts to four.

Before moving on four seconds.

Then waiting again.

See how irritating that is?

At first I wondered whether this was some form of analogy for time speeding up. Well, for starters it would mean the long dark nights would fly by if they were cut by 75%. And a gentle retirement would be here in five and a half years instead of the depressing 22 I'm actually going to have to endure.

But no. A little research tells me that this is my watch informing me its battery is on its last legs. Or whatever batteries use for legs.

It's worth mentioning that this is actually quite a nice watch. Bought some years ago in a world where there were fewer bills, I splashed out on it, seduced by the fact that this particular brand was promoted by a Piers Brosnan-era James Bond. And who doesn't want some of that 007-ness to rub off on themselves? I like to think that Piers and I have many things in common. We both have Irish ancestry. And legs.

So off I went to the jewellers, to get the battery replaced. "I can quote you between four and six weeks," came the reply.

What? Do you have to send the bloody thing off to Switzerland where some aged artisan will work upon it in an arcane laboratory, using tools made of purest unobtainium?

Actually, that would appear to be the case.

"So, how much battery life has it got left when it starts doing this four-second thing?" I asked him.

"About six days, seven if you're lucky."

So it turns out I get a week's notice about something that'll take six weeks to fix. How Bond ever showed up on time for anything, I'll never know. Maybe Q gave him a Timex to fall back on.

Ich bin ein fatboyfat

'Do something different' is a common refrain from those of a more adventurous bent. Those jolly souls who think nothing of chucking themselves off a piece of a relatively high piece of landscape while attached to a piece of elastic. Or out of a perfectly serviceable aircraft attached to a duvet cover. Or even in front of an enraged bull in some Spanish village.

In our case, however, "doing" is often in itself "different" enough for us. So yesterday found us walking to get a bus into town. There are two different doings in that one sentence alone.

We were going into Birmingham town centre for the German Christmas Market. They've been running these for eight years now; we get a genuine Frankfurt market for over a month in the run-up to Christmas. It's a big operation - there are the seasonal gift stalls, food places and even mini beer-halls, all run by German families. Their kids even get the month in schools over here, too, by all accounts.

I do wonder if there's an exchange programme going on, with the good citizens of Frankfurt getting a whole load of market stalls run by Brummies selling knock-off DVDs and handbags made by Louis Vuitton's brother-in-law.

But I digress.

This year the market was bigger than ever, and though the icy rain did its level best to dampen everything yesterday, it was all picturesque and everyone was in good spirits.

'You did remember your camera, didn't you?' was Katie's earnest query on the bus going in.
'Oh bugger,' was my witty response.

So you'll have to rely on these pictures from the Beeb to give you a flavour.

After we'd had a random wander around we were to be found in one of the afore-mentioned beer-halls. We'd filled ourselves with various fried pork products and I was reaching for my third stein of ice-cold beer.

'So, this "do something different" malarkey,' asked Katie. 'When do we start?'

From sea to shining sea

I still don't quite know how it happened. What started as some bloke sitting on his sofa to document his weight-loss programme in a blog has ended up being popular in all types of places across the planet.

Including a whole bunch of people who are right now scratching their heads on the spelling of 'programme' in that last sentence.

And I have proof. Look here:


Just when we thought we'd seen enough colour-coded maps of the States in recent weeks, too. This tells me the whereabouts of visitors over the last month. The darker the green, the more people from that state who've been here.

Wowsers. There are people in Alaska who've read this nonsense! Surely they're all too busy watching out for Russians trying to nick the milk from their doorsteps?

You'll have noticed, however, some white bits. There are whole states that have never experienced the unalloyed delight of my witterings. Whole stretches of America that have yet to encounter the Lard. Or, indeed, to Make it History.

People of America, this is where you can help. (And those of you from the Rest of the World, who were about to bugger off to BoingBoing, you can help too). Do you know anyone living in what we will for the moment call 'The Lardless States'? Those poor, benighted places on the map above that are pearly white in all their shame?

Get on the phone. Drop them an email. Use carrier pigeon if it'll help. And get them to visit. They don't have to kick their shoes off. They'll be welcome. We have tea. I barely ever mention Boston Harbour. Look, it's Thanksgiving Day today - what else could be more fitting than to speak to your long-lost cousins over the state line? "Good to speak to you, cuz- we must do this again soon. Oh, and by the way, could you visit this strange British guy's blog?"

And it does work. I did this on a global basis last year and I now have a power base in New Zealand, thanks to some premium-quality blog-pimping by le Laquet. Well, 'power base' is perhaps stretching it a bit, but you get the gist.

We can unite America. Think about it. One nation puzzled by one blog. We can do this, folks.

Yes we ca....oh, that's been used, hasn't it?

High spirits

Today Katie and I went to the Good Food show at the Birmingham NEC. It's a regular event for us - we did it last year - and as unrepentant foodies it's a cause of some excitement.

There are some analogies you can use for situations like this, 'kid in a sweet shop' being one. But 'two overweight people surrounded by food' would appear to be equally apt.

However, the show isn't just about food. Oh deary me, no. There's drink, too. And we have a cellar to fill. Well, not exactly a cellar. More 'a space in our kitchen where we keep booze'.

I was reflecting on this as I used the 'shop and drop' at the show, where visitors can leave their purchases until they go home. I was checking in packs of ale from the Purity Brewery and Hook Norton. Quite a few, actually, bottles clinking ominously. Then there were several bottles of Martin Millers gin. And the Peat Monster whisky. It was, I have to say, a sight to behold; the chap behind the counter regarded the booty and drew an approving breath.

"Looks like someone's going to have a good Christmas," he said, jealously.

I fixed him with a weary smile before replying.

"Yes, but if it wasn't for the kids we wouldn't bother."

Not a flicker.

Small mercies

That's it. I've had enough.

The news is unremittingly glum. Not a chink of light can be seen. It's so depressing I found myself putting on a Leonard Cohen record for some light relief.

And I've had enough. So tonight I'm making a stand. We need to celebrate things more openly.

At the moment, we only ever celebrate the things we think are worth marking. Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries and the like. Congratulations on your new job. Good luck as you rush headlong into marital bliss.

All of these are big things, and clearly they're worth shouting about. But what about the lesser events? How about the small mercies? Wouldn't it do us wonders - emotionally at least - if we were able to record and celebrate the little victories?

So I've started. And I'm designing greeting cards to help us along the way. Here are the first ones:

You've failed in your career. Your love life has all the frantic activity of a Methodist cheese and wine party. But you've managed to cultivate a beard, all on your own. Celebrate!

After years of emails from Nigerian princes with more money than sense, some that offered drugs whose dramatic effect would have you incapable of running up the stairs to take advantage, plus degrees from "Honest Al's MBA Shop", you finally got one that was selling something you needed. Felicitations!

He's been there for you through thick and thin. It's time to mark the old fella's time with you. Although he's now out of warranty, so keep it modest.


It'll be a millstone around your neck for the next 240 years. But at least for the following month you'll be avoiding snarky letters and phone calls from people called Jason in call centres.

I think we might be onto a winner, people. So if you can think of any small mercies, perhaps we can develop the range a little. Doesn't matter how minor a victory, how banal the achievement. Someone, somewhere, needs a pat on the back. And someone, somewhere else, to pay £1.30 for the privilege of doing the patting. (Note to Hallmark and Clinton cards: this counts as a patent. Don't you be getting smart on me).

So this is where you, the gentle reader, come in. Give me your ideas. What would be worth marking? Put your ideas in the comments. Or, if you're good with graphic packages (I'm looking at you, Dory), send me a jpeg by email - the address is on the top right navigation menu thingy.

Come on people - I'm relying on you. Together we can banish the blues, dispatch the depression, and give glumness the finger.

Do it yourself

In reality I was quite happy to do it in the semi-dark. After all, it's something I've got quite good at; I've been doing it for years. So when one bulb - out of two in the fitting - went kaput in my bathroom, it never really bothered me.

It's amazing how one's lack of handiness allows you to adapt to inconvenience. Shaving in the semi-light was never a problem; at least not as much of an issue as getting on some step ladders, detaching the fitting from the ceiling (several small and awkwardly placed screws), replacing a bulb and then putting everything back together.

It turns out that the off-chance of slicing my face to ribbons is nothing when compared to the unadulterated faff that comes with having to perform basic DIY tasks. Eventually, however, the risk of facial injury was too great and I was to be found, a heady two feet off the ground, my arms in the air and bitching like a bastard.

Only then, blinking in the new-found light, did I realised how I'd allowed my crapness* at DIY to drive my life. I honestly had no idea my bathroom looked like it did. Shaving was to become less dangerous, if more efficient.

It was the same in the kitchen. Many years ago, before we had the whole lot ripped out and replaced by someone professional, we had the original kitchen the house builders had installed. The low-level cupboards were clearly designed for Italians. I say this because they had no shelves and were therefore useful only for tall items like pepper grinders or those glass containers filled with dried spaghetti.

In a fit of usefulness I went and bought timber (well, chipboard) from B & Q, cut it to size and fixed it in each cupboard as a halfway shelf arrangement. This immediately curtailed my long pasta storage ambitions, but helped in terms of holding just about everything else.

For about a fortnight.

I'd done what I usually do in all matters DIY. I'd set out with good intentions and absolutely no idea. I'd failed to let my lack of ability and tools get in the way. In this particular case, I'd not thought about fixing the shelves to the back wall of the cupboards with anything even remotely robust.

Slanting started to occur. Things began to move around independently. Triggered by what, I don't know - perhaps the rotation of the Earth was enough to do the trick. But as a result, it meant that opening the kitchen cupboards was a task filled with the tension normally associated with defusing a landmine. Which particular utensil, you'd wonder, was going to leap out on you with no notice?

As a result I adapted. I'd adopt the stance of a wicket-keeper. I might just have been retrieving a colander, but to casual observers I was facing a first-order West Indies bowling attack. And the thing was, I'd started to do this naturally, because it was just easier than fixing it.

So what can we learn from this, dear reader?

• The average man will happily put up with all sorts of inconvenience as an alternative to doing work around the house; and
• If you want anything doing around here, employ a professional.
  

(*I know. It's not a real word. I've been doing this daily for 24 days, for crying out loud. Throw me a bone, why don't you?)